


We Are Dead Until Dark

by lancesface



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Thirst, Body mutilation, Dark John, Dark Sherlock, Demon John, Demon Sherlock, Demons, Evil, M/M, Minor Character Death, Vampire John, Vampire Sherlock, Vampires, Vamplock, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 11:38:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1856727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lancesface/pseuds/lancesface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I assure you Ms. Rorschach this is not cancer. Nothing but some simple inflammation.” John wanted out of this tedious little office with its walls painted a dull grey and furniture that was equally as dull. The need for nourishment pounding within him, the want of the hunt and chase, to grasp a thin neck and snap the small bones, ligaments, and nerves that gave it life. John wanted to feel the still warm blood flow from the lifeless body that he held easily in his hands into his mouth, the thick fluid washing through him and soothing the demon within himself, calming the devil that he transported everyday behind the human illusion that he sustained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are Dead Until Dark

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Sherlock AU Gift Exchange and is a gift for [ghislainem70](http://ghislainem70.tumblr.com/). This does include vampires and blood and all around icky things that may squick some people out so be warned if any of this may trigger you or do something else of the like. You can come visit me on tumblr [here](http://sherlsdick.tumblr.com/)  
> Anyways I also made up basically everything about the vampires in this universe so this really doesn't follow traditional vampire universe rules.  
> Enjoy!

John watched as the woman's lips moved, speaking words that he wasn't hearing. There were smudges of red lipstick over her white teeth, sticking in between the cracks and staining the enamel. Her hands gesticulated wildly about her as she complained about her imaginary disease. John really didn't care if her neighbor had said it might be cancer or if her mom said it could be ulcers. It wasn't. She was a fucking hypochondriac. End of story. She was an attention seeking little fly in the shite pile of the human race. She was here for nothing more than to nourish John's race, a cow that would soon be lead to slaughter. She didn't know that but it was the truth. The only thing that mattered about her was if her blood was clean or not.

John's dark eyes watched her as his brain took in the asinine drivel that spilled from her mouth; flicking over the line of her neck and listening to the blood pump underneath her skin. He watched the beat of her pulse quicken beneath her skin as she got herself more and more excited about the topic. God, she just didn't get it did she? He didn't care if she died. She'd be dying soon anyway because John hadn't fed in several days and he was pretty sure this woman wouldn't be missed, not that anyone would find her anyway but better safe than sorry. Her voice was high and irritating, the kind of voice that everyone hated, that everyone wanted out of their heads.

“Doctor!” she voiced, nearly shattering John's delicate eardrums, “Have you even been listening to what I've been saying?” John clenched his teeth, using every ounce of self control to not rip her neck open right here in his office. That would be messy and take forever to clean up. He plastered a false smile over his features, illusion glittering superficially, and directed his focus back to her.

“Of course, Ms. Rorschach. You were saying that you had some tenderness in your abdomen?” Of course she didn't but he didn't say that. She would only become harder to catch later on. Besides, he'd promised Sherlock a good meal and he wouldn't disappoint his childe.

Her pout lessened and she straightened her back in the chair, pulling up her chin in a haughty way. “Well, yes. What do you prescribe for it?”

“Seeing as you've no history of cancer or, anything really, I’m going to give you a prescription for some mild soothers. Then, if the pain persists, come in and see Doctor Morstan, she specialises in this sort of thing. Alright?” John asked as he scribbled down the meaningless words for the woman's medicine on his pad.

“But, doctor, I was talking to my neighbor the other day and she said that her sister-in-law had the same issues and 9 months later just dropped dead from cancer. Can you believe that? She was barely 50 when it happened.” John's teeth ground together, the hard line of his razor sharp incisors nearly shattering his illusion. He took a controlled breath before bringing his lips into a tight smile.

“I assure you Ms. Rorschach this is not cancer. Nothing but some simple inflammation.” John wanted out of this tedious little office with its walls painted a dull grey and furniture that was equally as dull. The need for nourishment pounding within him, the want of the hunt and chase, to grasp a thin neck and snap the small bones, ligaments, and nerves that gave it life. John wanted to feel the still warm blood flow from the lifeless body that he held easily in his hands into his mouth, the thick fluid washing through him and soothing the demon within himself, calming the devil that he transported everyday behind the human illusion that he sustained.

“You could always be extra sure,” she said, making a pitiful attempt at seduction. Her eyelashes fluttered against her plump red cheeks and John's illusion shimmered as he thought about all that scarlet blood flowing to his body. She was alone in life; estranged by her family and abandoned by her friends, she essentially had no one. She was worthless to society but quite valuable to him. Though his anger at this pathetic creature out weighted his excitement at finding a meal.

Her eyes were expectant as John stared at her. She was sitting on the examine table like some sort of wretched model, complete with disgustingly alive organs and horridly functioning brain, firing off neurons and orders at every second. John could do it, he could kill her in an instant and she would never know what sort of horror she'd been hit by, how close to hell she'd really been. But John steeled himself, he had to wait. He could play dumb to her advances and have her think him thick in that area of social construct or he could rebuff her outright, put her in her place as a beef cow and nothing else, destroy any type dignity the woman may have once possessed. In hindsight though, he could see her reacting more enthusiastically to him if he went through with the first option.

“I’m sure my first examination was thorough enough. Now was there anything else you needed or will that be all,” John asked with a strained note of politeness and friendliness that repelled him and made him want to gouge out his own eyes with a spoon. She glanced at him, mouth turning down from its position in an imitation of a seduction grin, eyes looking him over to see if he was really so dense as to see her invitation as anything but what it was.

“Well, no, there wasn't.” Her face looked slightly forlorn and, if John had the capability of feeling some sort of compassion for her he would but, that being said, he couldn't. He knew what her pattern would be once she left his office. She'd go home and talk to her multiple cats about how she'd never have a husband. Then she'd watch telly until she was just tired enough for all of her hateful emotions to swell up and come bursting out into something that would most definitely devolve into a running nose and watery eyes, cheeks becoming muddled with the colours placed on her eyelids and lashes. These humans were all so predictable it was a wonder how the race hadn't died out already.

John has seen humanity come up with governments and monarchies, watched kingdoms climb and empires fall. He's seen humans come to the realisation that earth orbits the sun and that posies can't keep away the plague. He used to feel something akin to pride in the race he used to belong to, so many years ago, now he just feels a constant, cold empty bitterness that consumes him, contempt that nearly splinters the illusion that hides his true form.

“Have a nice day then, Ms. Rorschach,” John dismissed her instead, waving his hand in the direction of the door and turning his back to her. He began to fill out paper work on his desk, barely glancing at the words as his hand went over the paper. The meatbag dithered for a moment in his door before finally leaving and taking his delectable meal away from him for a few more hours.

For the remainder of his shift John's mind slowly kept sneaking back to his little meal, teasing at the demon and torturing it with the promise of nourishment, of sweet, smooth blood coursing through its body. By the time John was finished his illusion was flickering and his mouth was watering, his fingers twitched for a hold on a corpse, longing to hunt and to kill.

He wanted, oh how he wanted, to simply run from his office, run and feel the beast within him come alive but he had one more stop to make, one more thing and then he'd could watch the life drain from that woman's eyes, he'd get to see that flicker of fear cut through them before the light died from her soul.

He tidied his office quickly and efficiently, grabbing his bag and leaving without saying so much as a goodbye to the other doctors. His illusion was barely sustaining itself, letting glimpses of his true form bleed through, if only for a second. Black eyes rimmed with glowing red and a smile that could turn human's blood to ice, John walked. People avoided him, looked away when his eyes slid over to their faces. He could sense every drop of blood in their bodies, practically taste it on his lips as he passed them on the footpaths. They were all too stupid to truly realise what he really was, they were just to wrapped up in their pathetic, worthless, little lives. It sickened John to think that he had been like these people once. He smirked when a woman with a small child in a papoose and another in a pram pulled herself and children farther away from him. It was so easy to intimidate these insignificant fools.

It took John little time to arrive at his and Sherlock's flat. He could hear the violin on the street as he unlocked the front door, stepped inside, and finally let his illusion drop completely. He was thinner and taller than any normal human being but still short compared to others of his kind. His hair was much longer and was held back in a crimson ribbon, dishwater coloured locks curling in on the ends. His nails were long and dark, sharpened to a fine point that was perfect for tearing at flesh, just like his teeth, which gleamed and shined like pearls. His body was dressed in his usual black suit that adorned this body constantly, it was what the demon had chosen and would never be rid of. The suit contrasted beautifully with his paper white skin, the deep black fabric making his skin seem to glow.

Polished shoes made their way up the stairs to where Sherlock stood, looking out on the pavement below as the little mice that populated this earth scurried about, running out to jobs and running home to family. How pathetic. His pallid face looked dark and shadows coming in through the glass danced off of his incredibly high cheekbones, settling and creating a masterpiece of pure beauty. His hands were at his sides, violin in one hand and bow in another. His glacial eyes watched and scrutinized the people beneath the longer he stood there, lashes flickering over cheeks. John simply settled where he was in the silence, hollow black eyes focusing on Sherlock. His chest stayed still as Sherlock continued his vigil at the window, nonexistent heart not beating and useless lungs not expanding.

Finally, Sherlock took an unneeded breath, and turned placing his Stradivarius carefully in its case, laying the bow next to it before turning to John and placing his gaze upon him, piercing through him. Even after such long years Sherlock still maintained the essence of his old personality, the lovely intelligence still exuding from him in every way. He shed his illusion in his sire's presence and came to John, placing his head on John's shoulder as he leaned into him, mouth and nose pressed against the pallid skin of his neck. His eyes glowed an opaque wall of scarlet and his dark curls were pulled back with a shining piece of white satin. His suit was more modern than John's and his nails a bit shorter, but his teeth glimmered brilliantly as he pulled back to smile at John, the sharpness of his incisors glinting in the dying light of the afternoon that was streaming through the window. John pulled his childe to him again, placing his mouth over Sherlock's and kissing him, nipping the plump lower lip and drawing the smallest amounts of blood. Sherlock responded as well, moving his mouth against John's, still letting out gasps even after all this time.

With one last slide of that mouth against his, John pulled back and straightened the suit that was still impeccable. He concentrated his gaze on Sherlock once more, noting the minute shakes that wracked through his form and the hungry glint housed in his endless eyes, the lust for blood and the need for the hunt. He needed to run, to feel the whisper of London's streets around him, to let it wind around the cage that was his mind and let out the howling monster trapped inside.

“My childe,” John spoke, voice a low tenor in the otherwise silent room, “I've found us a meal. One which we may share and feed upon uninterrupted. We will go after the night has befallen this earth. You must wait.” John pulled a hand through the curls on the nape of his neck, letting the silken tresses slide over the back of his hand and between his fingers. Sherlock's eyes looked imploringly at him, trying to will him to to go sooner but John just simply shook his head at his childe.

Pulling a book from the side table and sitting down in his favourite chair, something that he'd found in London in the late 1800s. Reasons to why'd he'd taken such a liking to it still remained a mystery to him but he'd taken care of it, making sure it'd been in good hands when he'd had to leave the beloved city again. Patting the fabric of his trousers he invited Sherlock to rest his head upon his lap like they'd done so many times since the beginning of the past century, when Sherlock had come crawling back to him after nearly dying at the hands of some vampire hunters. It’d always been a comfort to the childe, he was, after all, his favourite of all John's childes, so he indulged him.

Sherlock slowly came over, kneeling onto the carpet and placing that beautiful head filled with so much intelligence upon his thigh. His body had no heat to offer but John still liked feeling the weight of the creature on him and the presence next to him.

“What is she like?” Sherlock asked from the floor, eyes shut and sharp fingernails pulling at the rug. John placed a foot over the offending hand before answering and all movement halted instantly.

“It is not a she,” John corrected harshly, his own hunger grating on his nerves as well, “merely a meal to provide sustenance for our starved bodies. It does, however, have pleasant smelling blood, B +, and plump skin on which to feed. It has little connection to others of this deplorable race and will not be missed. Aged 46 and is in possession of two cats. Will most likely be on her couch after dark tonight.” Sherlock relaxed under his hand as he gently massaged his scalp, the sensitive follicles rendering him quite cat-like and pulling a hum that almost sounded content.

When John was sure that he would not be interrupted he began to read to his childe, reading word after word of this meaningless language. John could remember speaking languages of romance and beauty that outshined this dull and inferior language. He could remember a time when language flowed with elegance and grace, creating everything from those words alone. Now John was subject to these empty sounds that were meant to be something great.

Over the thousands of years John had been alive he forgot most things. He forgot when Rome had first been built but, oh, how he remembered how it had fallen. So many events occupied his brain space that he was bound to forget some things but he would never forget things like pure beauty, or some of the greatest empires. But one day that would surely be etched into his brain forever was the day he'd first layed his eyes upon Sherlock, over 100 years ago.

* * *

_John stood on the corner of the street , walking stick held firmly in the grip of his right hand as he watched the astounding spectacle before him. The pallid man with cheekbones that could be made into shelves shouted at another man on the street in front of him. The intellect alone was enough to have the man cowering and averting his eyes. Listening to the words bellowed from the man's mouth John was surprised to find that he was actually in possession of a brain, using details from the man's person and nuances of his body to inflame his insults. When the man finished the man who had been the recipient of his ire scampered off to the filthy alleyways that twisted around the city and made a maze of it._

_The man then straightened, pulling his waistcoat down with his gloved hands and straightening the hat upon his head with an upturned nose. His eyes, however, gleamed and glowed with knowledge far beyond what any other ordinary human had ever shown. John observed him as he then stepped into a flat located just behind him and shut the door tightly._

_John stood there long enough for the day sun to disappear and the night moon to rise high above him. He thought, of all his childes, this man would be his greatest and most interesting conquest of all. It took little time at all to come to the decision that at no matter what cost, John would have this man for his own, he would own the man completely and utterly._

_Choice made John waited for all of London to relax around him, to roll into a lull of false security that he would take full advantage of. He stood, still as a statue, listening to irritated shouting, screeching of a violin, and finally, when a orange glow emanated from the high windows John made his move._

_His illusion flickered and then fell to the ground in glittering crystals of pure evil magic. His footsteps were silent on the pavement as were his fingernails as they picked the lock and opened the heavy door. His demonic form made its way up the stairs and into the sitting area where his prize sat, bundled in a housecoat and house clothes, a blanket thrown across the expanse of his lap. A pile of correspondence by the door told John the man's name: A Mr. Sherlock Holmes. His blood was warmed by the fire and John's nostrils flared, his canines gnashing against one another the more he stood stationary._

“ _Most men would knock before entering another man's home,” a deep voice sounded, making John smirk and pride himself on finding such a perceptive man for a new childe. As the man turned John knew the exact moment he realised that John was no normal human being. A spike of fear shot through his amazing eyes before they quickly became assessing, taking in all of the details of John's person before coming to a conclusion, one that had him standing to come closer and stare directly at John's face._

“ _Not human then,” was the final result of the man's observations. John gave him a wide smile, bringing his prized teeth into view. Sherlock's eyes widened and he looked over John again._

“ _That was incredibly vague but correct nonetheless. Care to make a more informed deduction?”  
John goaded the man. He was in no mood for playing but could spare a moment for his next childe. Sherlock had the audacity to look offended but the look was quickly wiped off his face as John's hand came to rest on his bony cheek, sharp long nails trailing over his skin and leaving tiny red lines in their path. The sound of blood beneath skin reached John's ears and he could hold himself back no longer._

_John's teeth sank into the sweet flesh of Sherlock Holmes but pulled only the smallest of sips, ingesting the red ambrosial liquid. His throat was coated with it and burned at the luscious taste of Sherlock's blood. It started to pump through his frozen veins, bringing a semblance of life to the devil himself. Sherlock's body was completely lax in his arms though he was still conscious. Boundless eyes stared into ice blue ones, one pair frozen in abject horror and one pair filled with lust. His gaze staying on Sherlock's, John slowly brought his wrist to his mouth and bit through the hardened skin where he'd bitten so many times before. The blood of hell coming up through his arteries and flowing sluggishly, slow enough so that the first drip that was forced into Holmes' mouth had barely made it halfway down his arm._

_The second the demon's blood reached the taste centers of Sherlock's mouth he pulled up and grabbed the wrist that was held against his mouth, the addictive flavour of pure evil enticing his brain and convincing it to take more, to suckle like a calf to his mother. John watched, pleased, as the changes began. Sherlock's human form gaining cracks like a doll of glass, the body breaking and collapsing in on itself until the last lights of his soul leaked through and escaped to what lay above for human's of a good sort of nature. His body then finally splintered and shattered, leaving only enough for an illusion that could be used by the demon soul that was now all that remained of the great Sherlock Holmes._

_The illusion was weak at the moment and flickered before crumpling and hiding for another time. Deep red eyes framed by hate and nightmares gazed at him. John brushed away the long hair and whispered, low and beautiful, “Have you ever been had?” At the shake of a head John pulled the gorgeous childe he'd created with his own blood and changed that, being sure that the walls were scraped and all furniture destroyed or made nearly so._

_Much later that night, John witnessed some parts of the man come back and him whimper and leave, grabbing a few things, scampering out into the night. For five weeks there were reports of the most grisly murders, bodies mutilated beyond all recognition, blood all but gone, bodies drained of everything. Five weeks and two days later a defeated Sherlock Holmes came back to his home where he'd known his sire would still be, waiting for him. John took him in with the most open of arms, listening to the worries of the young demon and teaching him all he needed to know, taking care of his childe like any sire would. They'd stayed together since then, moving around when need be but eventually, inevitably, returning to London._

* * *

 

John's eyes flickered over the page and finished the final word of the book, not at all surprised by the ending. He shut it with a snap and layed it beside his arm as he gazed down at the childe on the floor, sitting and positioned like some sort of sculpture that had been forged from only the best of marble stone. Eyes flickered to the window John saw the night moon beyond the window and hung in the sky, telling him it was finally time. His fingers tightened on the head below and slowly the trance in which he'd put Sherlock gave way to his full consciousness.

“My childe, we will go now. We will feed like we are meant to and make waste of the cattle's menial life. Tonight, my childe, we hunt, we run, we chase.” John held Sherlock's face between his and witnessed the eyes become wide and glassy at just the mention of the chase. Excitement rolled off of Sherlock in waves and he bolted to the door to ready himself for the game, the game that only them two would ever play. An amused smile played around the edges of John's mouth as he rose from the comfort of his chair and joined Sherlock at the door leading down to the street.

With his long fingers he grasped his childes hand in his own as he walked them to the front door, watching the childe beside him vibrate with anticipation and impatience. The door was locked behind the two beasts as they stood in the open air, illusions dropped, for the first time in weeks.

“Are you ready, my childe? Follow me,” John gave no time for an answer, simply sped off, knowing Sherlock would be behind him. The London air whipped around them and tore through their skin, exhilarating John and making his legs to carry him faster. He wanted to create supernaturally strong winds, winds that, if they were to blow by a human, would knock them off their feet and ignite their skin. John's eyes burned and spilled sludge from the pits of hell as his legs blurred on the pavement. He kept the pits that were his eyes focused on one thing, the address of one Ms. Rorschach.

John's feet skidded on the pavement as he came upon the flat. His hand flew out to his side to stop Sherlock who still had yet to perfect the talent of halting exactly where need be. Sherlock's and John's teeth gleamed like daggers as they spread their lips in matching maniacal smiles and stepped up to the door. John slipped the edge of his fingernail into the slot and twisted around for a moment, searching for the appropriate latch within the contraption.

John's enthusiasm grew as he heard the promising click of a lock being unlatched and he quickly pulled his finger back and twisted the nob on the oak door. It opened silently and looking into the room, just as he'd predicted, Ms. Rorschach lay passed out on the couch with two very hairy cats atop her chest. The top of the horrendously green sofa contained two boxes of take-away, one tube of ice cream, an entire package of chocolate digestives, and a plate that looked like it had once held a piece of chocolate cake.

Sherlock wanted to pounce on her instantly, drain her body of all fluids and then leave the carcass to be eaten by her cats but John once again held him back with a strong arm. He wanted to have some fun and could wait a few seconds longer on his meal to have it. John was going to teach Sherlock the perks of delayed gratification.

Eyes beaming dangerously John walked forward, kneeling beside, the couch and delivering a hard slap to the walking blood bag. As expected she shot up and took a few shaky steps back, eyes unfocused and body unbalanced from being torn from her slumber.

“What the bloody hell? What are you doing in my flat?” She shouted in that annoyingly high pitched voice that made John want to tear off his ears. Her eyes finally dilated enough for her to get a good look at him before she opened her mouth, ready to scream in terror but she never got out another sound.

Flicking his fingers at Sherlock they charged her, silencing her scream by ripping out her trachea with hands and laughing as the light quickly faded in her boring muddy eyes. They broke her body and feasted that night, staining her carpet with large splatters of blood as they tore every artery, vein, and capillary from her fleshy body. Her jugular spurted up like some sort of sick fountain and gushed out slick blood that they happy licked up. They held the limp woman for one another as they fed, nibbling on the bones and sucking marrow from within. They left the cats to sniff their meal for the next few days whilst they fucked by the fire, feeling and touch fueling the basest parts of their beings, the only parts that were left. And then, when they were done, they went to the loo, washed off and ran off, back into the night that was theirs.

And, oh, what a night it was.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Really hoped you enjoyed that (especially you ghislainem70!) All comments and kudos are definitely appreciated. This work was un-beta'd and unbritpicked so if there are any glaring errors please don't hesitate to tell me so.  
> XOXO


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